


We might be hollow but we're brave

by RemainNameless



Series: Starts with "F", Ends with "U" [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulation, Napping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>later sequel to "You hollow out my empty eyes"</p><p>The case against Derek is mounting, and as far as Stiles is concerned, it's up to him to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We might be hollow but we're brave

**Author's Note:**

> YO GUYS SRS WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE.  
> and btw this is like part 8 of a longer thing so if you're a newbie, check it out and READ THE WARNINGS PLS.  
> okay, for everyone else, this part contains a character totally dissociating, going into a fugue state and the whole ordeal. the trigger for it isn't revealed, but it's situationally implied. also, serious manipulation like whoa. 
> 
> and many thanks to qhuinn for being a fab beta! and perf silvia for handholding!   
> xxoo

There’s a slam, enough to jar Stiles out of sleep, and it takes a split second for his eyes to land on his dad standing in the front doorway.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he says, and Stiles winces, squeezing his eyes shut like that’ll make him disappear.

“Sorry, I—” Derek tries, but Stiles’ dad holds a hand up.

“I don’t know why I expected anything different, really,” he says with a heavy, heavy sigh. “I know what you’re like when you’re into someone, Stiles, but _you—_ ” he looks at Derek “—should go home. They’ve been looking for you, down at the station. They’ve got some questions about the fire, and it’ll be better for everyone if you just go with it.”

Derek starts trying to move, so Stiles gets off of him, legs a little sleep-shaky. Everything feels fucking awkward. There’s got to be something to diffuse it.

“I told you he likes to cuddle,” Stiles tells his dad and both sets of eyes drill into him. “We’re waiting until marriage?” he throws out, but that’s worse, really. “I’m off my game, okay? Shutting up now.”

“My shoes are upstairs,” Derek says quietly. “I’ll just— yeah.” He disappears, leaving Stiles there with his dad. That deserter. Now there’s no one to buffer, just him, his dad, and the mother of all stern looks.

“I know, okay?” Stiles says. “I _know_.”

“Do you? Because I’m trying to _help_ you. And him. I’m serious. You two need to get your story straight and he’s going to need to go in and give them _something_ about that darach woman. Sooner rather than later. Got it?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, we will, okay?” He looks down at his bare feet, curling his toes. “Any news about his car?”

“They think the accelerant was gasoline, but that’s about it,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “It looks like one of the video cameras was tampered with a few days ago, so there’s no footage of the whole parking lot. I hope to God you parked there because they’re going through the camera pointed at the side of the building now.”

“I was,” Stiles confirms. “Well, sort of near the edge. That’s okay, right?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see it. Don’t know the exact range, but the whole station knows that damn Jeep.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “What if...If someone else were to confess to setting his car on fire, would that—”

“ _No_. Under _no_ circumstances are you going to—”

“But if he doesn’t press charges, it won’t matter, right? Nothing will happen, it’ll all just go away.”

His dad rubs his temples. “Do you even realize how suspicious it would look if he didn’t do _anything_ about you setting his car on fire? It’s a _felony_ , Stiles. Even if you could find someone who could argue it down to an accident— No. You’re not doing it. Don’t _even_ think about it.”

“Come _on_ ,” Stiles pleads, even if they’re not there yet, not at the place where he’d have to.

“Don’t do it,” Derek says as he comes down the stairs. “I won’t agree to not pressing charges.”

Stiles squints at him in betrayal. “Are you _serious_ right now? You would seriously let me go away for arson when I was saving your ass? You’re not going to let me help you?”

“I don’t need your _help_ ,” Derek says sharply and Stiles shuts up. Looks away.

“It’s not your job to help him, Stiles,” his dad says, and Stiles snorts.

“Yeah, because if I’d gone with that, he wouldn’t be dead five times over. _Clearly_ , Derek’s more than competent at protecting himself.”

“It’s going to be fine this time,” Derek tells him. “I’ll go in tomorrow morning. It’ll all blow over.”

Stiles’ dad nods. “He’s right.”

Of _course_ they’re agreeing now. Of course.

“I’m going to head out,” Derek says. He doesn’t move for a moment, then goes to Stiles, glancing at his dad, and brushes his lips against Stiles’ cheek. So soft that it’s maybe just his breath that Stiles feels, but it makes his legs feel like spaghetti in boiling water.

Stiles’ dad’s head turns, following Derek as he leaves. “He’s a good guy,” he says, looking back at Stiles.

“I know.”

Derek hears it, he _knows_ Derek hears it, but it’s alright. He should know. Stiles isn’t sure how to tell him, how to explain how grateful he is for the simple act of not leaving when asked, for not calling Stiles the things he thinks about himself. There might not be language to convey that. It might be impossible. But sometime, in the near future, he’ll try.

“I’m going to go upstairs,” Stiles says, and his dad looks like he wants to say something, but he lets Stiles go.

Up in his room, he finds the shirt he’d been wearing earlier folded on his bare sheets. Derek must’ve picked it up and left it for him. Stiles tosses it into his dirty clothes pile and looks around for his phone to text Scott an update on everything.

**FYI someone set Derek’s car on fire. We’re dealing with it.**

The response comes a few seconds later. **Sux dude. Need a break? We can grab some noms.**

Stiles sighs because he _does_. It’s been maybe twenty-four hours and he _misses_ his best friend, but he doesn’t trust himself to not let it all out. If he sees Scott if he looks him in the eyes, it’ll just happen. Out of guilt or fear or stress. But he’s already got one person who deserves better than dealing with it having to, and he doesn’t need another. Scott deserves better than having to worry about it.

Scott does, and Derek does too.

**I’m good. Tomorrow, maybe?**

He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t really want one, because he’s got too much to worry about.

They’re not in a good place right now, he and Derek. Rafa’s little visit would’ve been in some way not a total loss if he hadn’t seen Derek.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Because Rafa hadn’t been pissed when he’d left, not that Stiles remembers when he forces himself to. He’d been almost _smug_. Maybe he had reason to be. If Derek hadn’t, for whatever reason, decided that he would stick around, he’d be out of the picture and Stiles probably wouldn’t be able to fix it. But Rafa doesn’t know Derek didn’t bolt, does he? If he doesn’t, then Stiles has at least a _chance_.

It’s not like he’d had a buffet of opportunities to talk to Rafa about the case. Which makes sense, if he’d known Derek was there. How _long_ he’d known Derek was there is a mystery Stiles doesn’t want to dwell on, really. But if he feels like he’s _staked his claim_ or something, if he thinks he’s occupying a position of power, Stiles can use that. He can pretend to be weak and unable to be alone and that’s what Rafa wants, isn’t it? He wants Stiles to need him. Well, Stiles can pretend. And hope he’s pretending. Because he’s not sure how far down this goes, not sure what it means that he’s ready to go right back without hesitation, or if he’s pretending it’s all his decision as some sort of coping mechanism.

Maybe it’ll be the end. He’ll go to Rafa, play the crying, lost little boy, tell him Derek is disgusted by him or something, and let Rafa coax some information about the case out of him now that he’s not on Derek’s side anymore. It’ll be easy. He’ll just give Rafa what he wants and it can be done. Everything will be over.

Except there’s a part of him that’s pretty sure it won’t be. That Rafa won’t just settle for _done_. But if Stiles can get him to finish up his case, the FBI will send him somewhere else, right? And then he’ll be gone. Stiles won’t have to see him again.

But he’s going to have to keep fucking Rafa until he leaves, probably. Who knows what he’ll do if Stiles doesn’t. The thought makes his stomach feel like a void, but he’ll survive it. He has so far. And he can _try_ , anyway. If he plays at something like love, he might be able to convince Rafa that he’d rather spend fully-clothed time with him. That might work. Really, he’s not sure what Rafa would do if Stiles ever gave him a hard no. It might be the reason he never has. He’d rather think he’s made a bad decision than know someone’s taken his decision away from him.

The whole mess is different now, though, because of Derek. He’s a little afraid that after today, Derek won’t be able to handle it if he doesn’t stop. But a part of him thinks that Derek won’t be able to turn him away if Stiles shows up at his door soaked in Rafa’s scent. Stiles doesn’t want to use that, but he has to _fix this_.

He’ll do it tonight. He has to, to paint the right picture of him running into Rafa’s arms for comfort. It might be the most sickening thing he can think of, but it’ll put him one step closer to done.

 

Downstairs, his dad is having a beer, watching the news. He looks up when Stiles gets to the bottom of the stairs.

“Getting hungry?” he asks. “I was thinking about ordering something in. Long day.”

“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Stiles says and settles down on the other end of the couch.

They stare at the television for a minute or two before his dad talks again. “You can’t admit to setting Derek’s car on fire because they’re starting to look at you for other things.” Stiles stares at him, eyes wide. “It’s not serious yet, or McCall would be doing more than just threatening me with it, but they’ve noticed that you’ve been...present. At stuff as far back as January. There’s stuff that’s never quite added up, and it all makes sense now that I know what’s been going on, but it looks like all sorts of strange activity. And you’ve been there for a _lot_ of it. I’m not trying to scare you, and I’m keeping it away from you as best I can, but I can’t have you admitting to being involved in _more_ crap.”

“What do I do?”

“Absolutely _nothing_ ,” his dad tells him. “Let me handle it. Don’t answer any questions unless you’re in official custody. For now, just be a normal teenage boy who doesn’t know any werewolves.”

“Does that mean I can’t hang out with Scott?”

His dad snorts. “Do you think I’m stupid? Heaven and Earth couldn’t keep you two apart. Just don’t do anything too werewolfy. Do normal things. Play video games. Whatever.”

“You’re actually _telling_ me to play video games? Miracles do happen,” Stiles says with a smile he doesn’t quite feel. “I was actually going to head over there tonight. If that’s cool.”

“It’s fine.” His dad squints at him. “You know, if you’re going to go hang out with Derek, you can just tell me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not, don’t worry.”

It’s never gotten any easier, lying to his father. He thought it might, when he was just starting out, but he knows better now. Even though it’s only a sideways lie, Stiles knows that as far as his dad is concerned, going to Derek’s at all counts as hanging out with him.

His dad doesn’t catch it, though, and Stiles thanks whatever higher powers that be for letting the little stuff go alright, at least.

 

Two hours later, Stiles is sitting in his Jeep across the street from the motel Rafa’s staying at. His headlights are off, but the place is well-lit. If someone were looking, they’d have seen him already, probably. It’s that thought that makes him get out of the car.

It’s going to be fine. It’s just pretend. It doesn’t mean anything.

This isn’t going to be a sex thing. Not if he can help it. He’s totally in control of the situation. Whatever he has to say to get away with it is okay. None of it is real.

All he has to do is get through this and then he can go curl up with Derek and it’ll all be better.

Stiles’ knuckles sting when he knocks. There’s a moment  of silence and he’s about to knock again when he hears the chain and the door’s opening.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Rafa says as he steps aside to let Stiles in. His sleeves are rolled up and the top half of his buttons are undone. Stiles would think he’s been relaxing, but the lamp at the desk is on and there’s a half-finished beer next to it.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Stiles tells him. He avoids the bed, trying to make that much clear, and wanders over to the lone armchair but doesn’t sit. Rafa pulls back a metal slat of the venetian blinds, checking the parking lot, before fixing the chain on the door and approaching him.

“You don’t look so good, kiddo,” Rafa says as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Derek didn’t...he didn’t take it well.”

Rafa snorts. “Of course he didn’t. You didn’t really think he’d understand, did you? I warned you about that. I _told_ you. Don’t you remember?” Stiles finds himself shaking because something about that pings in his head, somewhere deep, and Rafa sighs, holds out his arms. “Don’t be like that. C’mere.”

When Stiles goes, he reminds himself that it’s a role he’s playing. And that it’s totally normal to want the comfort of a warm body. He’s had a trying day, and he probably could’ve stayed essentially connected to Derek until tomorrow, but Derek’s not here. Rafa is. If Stiles closes his eyes, he can almost fool himself that they feel similar. For a second, he can convince himself that Rafa’s not taller, a little softer, that he doesn’t smell wrong. Disturbingly familiar and wrong.

“He doesn’t understand you,” Rafa tells him, stroking his hair. “Not like I do. People like Derek think you’re sick, but I know better.”

Stiles grits his teeth as he makes himself push his face further against Rafa’s chest. “I think he’s disgusted with me,” he lies. “I think he hates me.”

“Then forget him. If he doesn’t need you, you don’t need him, do you? What can he possibly offer you, anyway? What could he offer that I couldn’t give you better?”

“He was my cover,” Stiles tells him. “I told everyone I was dating him so I could be with you.”

Rafa’s thumb rubs across the nape of his neck, like he’s trying to be soothing. “He went along with it?” he asks, and Stiles nods. “You’re so naive, kiddo. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

That makes Stiles frown, and before he can ask what that means, Rafa moves Stiles away. Bends down a little to meet him at eye-level, and squeezes his shoulders.

“I bet he was really nice to you, wasn’t he? Didn’t ask for anything in return, I bet. Not yet, anyway. Because he was waiting for the right moment. One day, he’d tell you how hard it is to control himself around you, how he’s never let himself ask you for anything, but what about just this once? Wouldn’t you just help him out? It would only be fair, he’d tell you, because you’re such a tease and you don’t even know it. But it wouldn’t stop there. He’d use you until he was bored of you and he’d just throw you away.”

Stiles is shivering and he hates himself for considering it, for wondering if maybe Rafa’s right on some level. If the way Derek’s been is just because he’s waiting for Stiles to come to him full of guilt and bend over to repay him for what he’s done. No, he doesn’t think Derek’s like that, not really, but how well does he really _know_ Derek? And what’s he getting for it all? What does he get from holding Stiles together? He hasn’t _really_ indicated anything like that, but it sticks at him like an itchy tag in the neck of his shirt.

“See, you know it’s true,” Rafa says gently, cupping Stiles’ cheek in one of his big hands. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who will take care of you. Someone who loves you. Someone much better than him.”

Stiles looks down, hating himself deep in his gut because his eyes are burning, because he’s starting to wonder if Rafa could be right. If Rafa’s ever even lied to him. _Has_ he? The thought sends his stomach into the floor, makes his knees a little weak.

“I need to sit down,” Stiles says. “Can I just sit down for a minute?”

“Of course. Here, come on. Come sit on my lap.”

It’s not like he’s stupid. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t know that’s a bad idea, but he finds himself going along with it anyway, sitting on Rafa’s knees with his thighs pressed tight against the arms of the chair, Rafa’s hands low on his back.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Rafa asks, stroking up his spine.

Stiles wishes he’d sat with his back against Rafa’s chest because it’s harder to lie when he has to look someone in the eyes, and he’s not even sure what he’s thinking, really. It’s all a mess in his head.

“I hate him,” Stiles says, “for tricking me like that. And for being disgusted with _me_ , when he was— It’s not fair. I trusted him, and he— I _hate_ him.”

“Shh, it’s okay, c’mere,” Rafa says as he pulls Stiles in, wraps his arms around him and holds him close, so Stiles’ face is tucked against his neck. It’s easy to just do this, to just sit here and breathe and soak up the warmth of another human being. It’s easier than thinking about everything. Than worrying about whether or not Rafa could possibly be right, or what it says about him that he’s even considering it, or why he’s considering trustin Rafa over Derek. It’s stupid, is what it is, but Rafa’s _sincere_ , pretty much. He never outright _lied_ to Stiles. After all, Stiles had been the one to pretend he was someone else in the first place. Rafa had thought he’d known all along. He hadn’t lied then. He doesn’t need to lie, after all; the truth is so much worse.

“I want to hurt him,” Stiles says after a long while. “I want to make him pay. Does that make me a bad person?”

Rafa kisses the side of his head. “No, of course not. It’s hard when someone you’ve been protecting turns on you like that. It’s natural to be angry.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve been _protecting_ him,” Stiles says after a moment. He’s _pretty_ sure that Rafa doesn’t know any different, doesn’t know how many times Stiles has saved Derek’s life.

“I know you have, and it’s okay. I’m not mad. He’s been using you, that’s all. Maybe you didn’t even know he was doing it.”

Stiles pulls back, frowning like he’s confused. “What do you mean?”

“I know you were at his loft when his car was set on fire, and I know you haven’t told the police about it. It’s okay if you’re protecting him. I understand, but you don’t have to anymore,” Rafa says. His hands curl around Stiles’ hips, warm against the cold Stiles feels under his skin.

“I fell asleep,” Stiles tells him. “But he didn’t do it. There’s no way.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Derek’s afraid of fire,” Stiles lies the best he can because he _knows_ that it could help, that it’s the best defense they have right now. “After his family...he doesn’t even have candles. He wouldn’t have be able to do it. I mean, I’ve seen him when— I’ve seen him. He doesn’t do well with it.”

Rafa frowns like he’s thinking hard, looking low, toward Stiles’ left.

“And he _loved_ that car. Why would he do it?”

“Evidence,” Rafa says in a low voice, still thinking. After a moment, his eyes snap to Stiles’. “You know things, don’t you? I know you know more than you’ve been letting on.”

Stiles looks away, saying, “She was going to kill my dad.”

“Except somehow, you and Allison Argent and Isaac Lahey found him first,” Rafa says. “Meanwhile, someone was killing her. And I think you know who.”

This is more than Stiles was expecting, and he has to make a choice: Deucalion or Peter. Frankly, he doesn’t know much about Deucalion in the first place, but he _does_ know that Peter’s around and he’s a threat. Maybe Stiles can kill two birds with one stone. Maybe this will go better than he’d thought.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stiles says, baiting him.

Rafa’s hands skim up his ribs and he leans in to kiss Stiles’ throat. “Of course I’ll believe you, baby.” His breath is wet against Stiles’ skin, makes half a shiver skid up his spine.

“Peter Hale,” Stiles says a little shakily because Rafa’s sucking a burn at his neck. But Rafa pulls back at _that_ one.

“Official report is that he was killed by Kate Argent before she committed suicide. But the body was never found.” Rafa’s frowning, eyes narrowed.

Stiles shakes his head. “Peter killed Kate and the others as revenge for his family. He’s been lying low since.”

“Why would he kill Julia Bacari?” Rafa asks because fuck him, he’s at least somewhat smart. “There’s no motive.”

“For Derek,” Stiles says, thinking fast. “Because she lied to Derek about who she was. Derek’s the only family Peter has left and he’s...obsessive.”

“Why do _you_ know that?”

Right here, he has two options: tell Rafa how far his involvement goes, or tell him something that’ll send him down a different path. Something that’ll distract him, something for him to fixate on. It’s right there, too, the obvious insecurity that he has.

“Peter wanted me to help him kill those people,” he says, grasping at whatever he can. “He wanted me to work with him and...you know. He’s always been kind of...I stayed as far away from him as possible for a reason.”

“Why did he know who you were?” Rafa asks, too gentle, like he thinks Stiles is lying.

“He attacked us at the high school. Back in January,” Stiles says. He keeps his voice steady. “I think that was the first time he saw me. I didn’t know who he was yet, and later, Derek and I were at the hospital when we figured it out. He beat the shit out of Derek, actually. And after that, well. He wasn’t really shy about what he wanted from me, but I wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of getting mixed up with a serial killer, so.”

Rafa’s eyes narrow and he touches Stiles’ cheek, fingers trailing down to his mouth where he just traces Stiles’ lips. “It’s not about Derek,” he says so quietly, Stiles isn’t sure he hears it right. “It’s about punishing Derek. For you. Because you chose Derek over him.”

 _That_ ’s megacreepy and Stiles is really fucking thankful it isn’t true. Because he knows at least that Peter didn’t torch Derek’s car. If he were going to fuck with Derek, he’d be way more subtle and way more cruel. But Rafa doesn’t need to know that. He can ride that crazy train all the way into the Arresting Peter station. Yup.

Rafa stares at him, at his mouth, for a long, long moment before pulling Stiles to his mouth. His hands come up to either side of Stiles’ head and he bites Stiles’ lip, tugs a little with his teeth until Stiles opens his mouth for him. He kisses like he’s building an empire in Stiles’ mouth, like he’s a thing to be conquered and made new.

It hurts under his skin, like a weird sort of nausea spread out through his body, because this is _wrong_. It feels like a betrayal, and it stabs him in the gut when he realizes that it’s because of Derek. Because it feels like he’s _cheating_ or something.

Stiles pushes Rafa away, feeling like he’s been hit by an icy wave.

“What is it, baby?” Rafa asks, going for Stiles’ neck.

Stiles pushes him away again, or tries, but Rafa grabs his wrists and holds them in place against his chest, kisses under Stiles’ jaw in a way that makes his stomach turn and his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t be like that,” Rafa whispers against the hinge of his jaw. “Let’s go slow tonight. I want to make love to you.”

“I can’t,” Stiles tells him. It comes out softer than he’d like, dry, like dust rising from the cracks of his throat.

“But I’ll make it so good for you, you know that.”

Stiles shakes his head, twisting so Rafa’s mouth isn’t on him anymore. “I don’t have time. I told my dad I was going to the store. It’s already been too long.”

Rafa pulls back and looks at him. His face is perfectly inscrutable. It makes Stiles nervous, makes his heart beat too fast.

“I’m sorry, I just needed to see you. I wish I could stay, but…”

Rafa sighs. “I know you’re lying, but it’s okay. You don’t have to make an excuse if you don’t want to sleep with me. It’s fine. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed you came here because you wanted me, I mean—”

“No, it’s not that,” Stiles finds himself saying, not sure why he’s feeling guilty all of a sudden. “I just...I’m tired. I didn’t really sleep last night. I want to be able to make it good for you, but I can’t.”

“It’s _fine_. All you have to do is say you don’t want to. You know I wouldn’t do anything if you told me you weren’t feeling it, right?” His thumbs stroke the insides of Stiles’ wrists and his expression is so _sincere_ that for just a moment, Stiles feels bad for having thought otherwise. But it’s not enough that he’s going to just shrug it off and stick around. There’s a reason Stiles has been afraid to completely refuse him, and he reminds himself of that.

Stiles nods, shaking a little as he leans in to press a quick, soft kiss against Rafa’s mouth. “I should—” it sticks in his throat, and something closer to the truth pushes past it instead. “I want to know if I can be with you without fucking. I need to know that.”

“Why don’t you stay a little longer? We can just sit here together, no pressure.”

If he stays, he _knows_ that something’s going to happen. Some way or another, Rafa will get him to the point where he can’t come up with any more excuses, and Stiles _can’t_. Not again today.

So he ducks in by Rafa’s ear, so he doesn’t have to see his face when he lies, and says, “ _I don’t trust myself_.” Rafa’s grip on his wrists is loose, so he pulls them away and climbs off his lap before Rafa can stop him.

Rafa’s wearing something close to a smirk, a proud one. “You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?”

 

Stiles finds himself with his hands on his steering wheel,  being blinded by the light in front of him. On instinct, he swerves right. The other car honks at him, a thin, lifting sound. A heavy _whoosh_ as it blows past his Jeep.

The speedometer reads 65. He jerks his foot to the brake pedal, a little too fast because he moves forward. The sound of the brakes grinding fills the car. When the needle gets down to 30, he starts shaking. It pushes out from his chest, to his elbows and knees, his teeth, molars tapping in an unsteady staccato.

It’s 10:18.

He left home a little after 7:30.

He didn’t get out of the car at the motel until after 8.

It’s 10:19 and Stiles isn’t sure where he is.

He’s accelerating again, and it scares him because he doesn’t realize it until he’s almost going 60, so he just pulls over, off the side of the road.

It’s dark. He doesn’t recognize anything. His body is still shaking. His fingers feel numb and they fumble to find his phone in his pocket. They’re cold, too, as he stares at the screen, skin turning white because he’s gripping it too hard.

His thumb somehow finds the right number, and he holds the phone to his ear, tries to keep his shoulders still against the back of his seat.

“ _Stiles?_ ”

The sound of Derek’s voice makes him shake harder, his knee knocking against the door.

“ _Stiles, say something_.”

He shakes his head, just manages to throw his door open in time to puke all over the asphalt. The sour taste of acid burns his mouth as he stares. Spits. Spits again.

“ _Where are you?_ ” he hears, realizing that the phone is still near his ear.

“I don’t know,” Stiles tells him. The words scrape his throat raw. He spits again. “I don’t feel so hot,” he says, but at least he’s mostly stopped shaking.

“ _Are you drunk?”_ Derek asks, and Stiles realizes that he’d been hearing noise in the background when it goes silent on the other end.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“ _Shit,_ ” Derek hisses. “ _Describe where you are._ ”

Stiles looks around. “My car. There’s a road…” He looks down both ways, doesn’t see any lights. “I think I almost hit someone. I’m not—”

“ _Wait, you were_ driving _like this? Fuck, okay, is there anything around you?_ ”

“Trees,” Stiles tells him, trying to breathe through his nose as he looks around into the dark, and down. “Derek, I think I threw up.”

“ _Stiles, I need you to use the GPS on your phone, okay? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you._ ”

Stiles nods, realizes Derek can’t hear it, and says, “Yeah, okay. Let me do that.”

He pulls the phone from his ear. It takes a second for him to figure out that he has to end the call, so he does, pulls up a map. Stares at it for a while before calling Derek back.

“I think I was coming to you,” he says as soon as Derek picks up. “I made a loop around town, through the south side of the Preserve. I know how to get to you.”

“ _Stiles, no_ —”

“I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up before Derek can say anything, drops his phone into the cup-holder. It starts buzzing almost at once, but he ignores it. He needs to go to Derek’s. He needs to know that he can get himself to Derek’s. If he can get himself there, then he’s okay. All he has to do is drive.

His ears hurt when he yanks the door shut. He takes a deep breath before he switches gears into drive, gets back on the road.

He can do this.

There’s road ahead of him. His hands are on the wheel, his foot on the gas, and he knows where he’s going. He’s going to get there. He can do this. His fingers are cramping, too tight on the wheel, but the trees are thinning at the edges of the illuminated pool of his headlights.

In the cupholder, his phone buzzes until he makes it to the parking lot outside Derek’s building.

Derek’s flung open the door before he’s managed to get his seatbelt off. The button’s tricky and he can’t feel his fingers, jabs at it until Derek brushes his hand away and gets him free.

And he’s just _there_. Derek’s standing there with his Derek face in that Derek look, like he’s drowning, and he’s just _Derek_ , really. Stiles reaches out and touches his cheek, lets the soft-scratch of Derek’s stubble ground him.

Derek stares at him for a moment, eyes flicking between his, until he blinks a couple times and leans forward to pull the keys out of the ignition.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says quietly.

Stiles nods, turns in his seat so his feet are on the little step up. He tries to get up, but his legs don’t hold him and he kind of slumps back into his seat. He frowns, not sure why his body isn’t working, but he can’t really _feel_ it, so maybe that’s why.

“Here, let me,” Derek says, and he scoops Stiles up and out of the car. Stiles’ arms tuck between their chests, and he can feel Derek’s chin on his shoulder, raised a little because Stiles is really too big to be carried like this, like a tired kid going home after the fireworks on the Fourth of July, legs hanging loose with exhaustion.

Derek smells good, a sweet kind of familiar. They spin, and Derek holds him up with the bar of his forearm as he pushes the button for his floor.

The air feels wrong. Like it’s wet.

Stiles isn’t really sure, though, because he can’t feel anything, but he can feel Derek’s t-shirt against his forearms and the rough of his jaw against his neck and his shoulder under Stiles’ cheek and wave-like motion as he walks.

They’re in a more familiar place now, Derek’s walls tucking him into his body where he belongs. His limbs are dry wood when Derek sets him down on his bed. Derek’s hand is warm and dry on his face, turning it from side to side and up and down to get a look. Stiles’ eyes move with his head, looking around the room.

“Wait here,” Derek says, and he’s gone and it’s only a second or two before Stiles is shaking with the cold. When he holds his hand in front of his face, it looks like it’s too far away. “Here,” Derek says, untwisting the cap from a bottle of water.

Stiles looks between his hands and the bottle, not quite sure how to make it all work, but Derek brings the bottle to his mouth. He drinks and his mouth tastes more alive. When he’s had enough, Derek pulls the bottle back, recaps it, and Stiles lets out a breath at the fact that he can’t see through him. That he’s really there.

“Don’t leave,” Stiles says into his stomach. Looking him the eyes to beg him _again_ to be the last thing he has to lean on, after everything that’s happened today, it’s too much.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek says, crouching down so he’s on level. “What do you need?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Don’t go away.” He reaches out and touches Derek’s hip, feels that he’s really there. Derek looks down at his hand and moves, setting the bottle down near the head of the bed.

“Come on, let’s lay down,” Derek says, growing as he moves closer, and Stiles shakes his head, frowning.

“I want to stay like this,” he says. “I don’t want to move.”

Derek moves back and drops to his knees in front of Stiles. “Okay.” His eyes are too white. “We’ll stay just like this.”

Stiles nods and after a moment, drops his head forward onto Derek’s shoulder. Takes long breaths through his nose. Doesn’t think about what to do with his hands.

 

Sometime later, when he’s mostly asleep, Derek coaxes him into lying down. When Stiles grabs for him, he stays. He’s warm and solid and everything Stiles isn’t.

 

Later, he screams himself awake, feeling claws somewhere deep, and he screams and he screams and he screams.

When his voice gives out, Derek raises the bottle of lukewarm water to his lips. It puts out the fire in his chest. When the bottle’s empty, Derek tosses it away, the hollow plastic bouncing across the concrete floor. Stiles is curled against his chest and his face is wet, his whole body is wet and cold with nightmare sweat. It’s been a little while since he’s woken up soaked in fear.

“I need a shower,” he tells Derek. “I need to get clean.”

But he can barely stand. Derek has to half-carry him all the way to the bathroom, sets him down on the edge of the tub. He hesitates at the faucet.

“What about a bath?” he asks, and Stiles thinks about it, about being surrounded by warmth, and nods. Derek runs the bath, the water blurring over his fingers as he waits for it to warm up. After a blink or a hundred, he plugs up the tub, wipes his wet hand on his jeans before turning to Stiles.

It’s like he’s a child. Derek helps him pull his wet shirt over his head, stays steady when Stiles braces himself on his shoulders to get out of his jeans. Even his underwear are wet, and he shucks them off without thinking. Derek ducks his head, eyes skimming away over the tile.

“I’m afraid to leave you alone,” Derek tells him. “I won’t look, I just—”

“I don’t care.” Stiles steps into the water, pausing because it’s almost too hot. His hand is still on Derek’s shoulder to steady himself. He lowers his body slowly, the steam rising up like a gentle warning.

When he sits, the water feels like it’s cooking him, pressing in too tight, but he needs it. Needs to be smothered.

Derek’s crouching beside the tub, looking away still. His hand is gripping the edge of the tub. When Stiles feels his fingers, feels the smoothness of his nails, the bumps of his knuckles, Derek looks at him. He looks sick or something, so Stiles touches his face with shaky fingertips. Derek’s eyelids fall shut as Stiles’ fingers trace around his cheekbone, in the hollow of his cheek, around his mouth, down to the center of his chin. 

“You should lay down,” Stiles tells him. 

Derek’s face twists and he takes Stiles’ hand, breathes over the back of it. “I’m not tired.”

“You look sick,” Stiles says. 

“I’m not,” he says, “not sick. Just scared.” Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. If he knew a way to get out of fear, he would use it, but instead he’s here with a sore throat and cold sweat dry on his shoulders and won’t think past the moment he got here. 

“Will you—” Stiles nods at the folded washcloth on the sink counter. Derek stares at it for a moment before leaning all the way over to grab it and moving in to kneel beside the tub. 

It’s quiet in a way that echoes.

Derek dunks the washcloth in the water, squeezes it, water running through his fingers, and brings it, still dripping, to Stiles’ back. It’s just the right temperature, nice and hot, and Derek rubs it over his skin. Gentle, soft. Stiles lets his head fall forward, skin going a little cold when Derek dips the washcloth back in the tub. Then the coin-jingle of water, the warmth. And again, and again, and again.

It takes a long time for him to feel clean. Derek has to run more hot water into the tub, swirls it around with a hand so it spreads around to his back. 

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Derek asks, shaking his hand dry. Stiles stares at him for a moment, moved because he’s _offering_ , he’s offering so much and Stiles can’t ever give him half as much back. 

He throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders, getting his back all wet, probably, but he needs him close. It tips Derek off his balance a little, so he has to brace himself on the other side of the tub. 

From there, Stiles isn’t sure if he pulls or if Derek gives, but there’s water splashing all over the tile and his breath leaving him because Derek’s pretty much in the bath with him. His shirt and his jeans to halfway down his thighs are soaked.

“Shit, sorry, I—” 

“Come on,” Stiles tells him, arms looping around his waist. After a tense moment, Derek lifts one knee and then the other over the edge of the tub and into the water. He holds himself back, won’t touch Stiles, like he’s afraid to. Stiles tries to tug him closer, but he won’t budge.

“I can’t, you’re— Not like this,” Derek says.

Stiles stares at him, then moves to the side, enough that Derek gets what he’s trying to do and fills the space between him and the wall. He moves around a little, sloshing the water around near the tub’s edge, so his back is against the wall, his feet flat beneath the faucet, and Stiles rolls on top of him. Derek’s hands come between them, like he’s guarding himself, but Stiles sinks down so his top half of his torso is on Derek’s stomach, his cheek on Derek’s chest. Nothing that would make Derek uncomfortable is touching anything, and even though the water comes just below his chin and his knees are against the tub bottom, it’s comfortable. 

Derek’s fingers are curled, unmoving, against Stiles’ shoulder blades, but he just doesn’t feel alright. When he looks up, Derek’s eyes are on the ceiling. 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. 

It seems to be enough to get Derek to fucking _acknowledge_ him, gets him to look down. Their eyes meet and Stiles almost flinches at the bitterness there. 

“What happened?” Derek asks instead of answering. “Why were you coming here tonight? Why didn’t you just cut across town like you usually do?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know, okay? I was…” He looks away, hides his face. “I thought I could fix things. I went to his motel, and we talked, and then...then I was on the road and it was later and _I don’t know_ _what happened_ , okay? I _have no fucking clue_.” He’s shaking again, like he’s freezing, even though the water’s warm around him, and Derek’s pulling him up, and he’s gasping for air. 

“You’re here now,” Derek says against the side of his face. “You’re here with me and you’re safe. You’re _okay_.” It lets Stiles breathe a little more normally. He keeps saying it, and Stiles breathes, and Stiles breathes, and Stiles breathes.

They sit there for a long while, Stiles sitting on Derek’s leg with his knees pulled to his chest. Derek’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders. Just a reminder that he’s there.

The water goes cold after a while, enough that Stiles starts shivering. It only takes a second for Derek to notice, and he loosens his arms.

“Come on. Let’s get you dry,” he says. 

It’s tough to get them both up without slipping. Stiles’ limbs are too loose and he’s got too much weight on Derek. But they manage it, barely. Derek helps Stiles climb out of the tub, then looks down at his soaked clothes. Seems to give up. He steps out and grabs a towel, wraps it around Stiles’ shaking shoulders, rubs him down. Rubs some warmth into his skin. 

And then Derek’s just standing there, dripping onto the tile, and Stiles feels bad because he’s probably horrendously uncomfortable. Stiles tests his legs, and he can manage a _little_. 

“Can I borrow some clothes? Mine are...I don’t want to put them back on.”

“Yeah, do you need me to—”

“I can do it,” Stiles says quickly, because he _needs_ to be able to do it. “I’ll get some for you, too.”

He leaves the towel on the sink counter and makes his legs carry him into the other room to Derek’s dresser. There’s a couple pairs of sweatpants, sweatpants Stiles has _never_ seen Derek wear, and some soft t-shirts, v-necks. He doesn’t think about it, just pulls on one of each so he can be warm, and brings the other clothes into the bathroom.

Derek’s got one leg up on the edge of the tub, drying off, and Stiles pretty much throws the clothes into the sink and moves back into the main room. He can’t really deal with Derek-nudity. Too much input for his brain to handle. 

“I’m going to lay down,” he says quick. Derek’s bed is nice, anyway, and Stiles kind of _really_ wants to just lay down and pass out. He’s exhausted all the way down to his bones. 

There’s a sheet and a blanket shoved down at the end of Derek’s bed, so Stiles pulls it up and wraps himself up in it. He _means_ to wait for Derek, but he can feel his mind slowing down, stuttering, and he’s asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i herd u liek derek pov so i got u sum derek pov for the next part
> 
> if u wanna hmu, it's majestic-beard on tumblr, beaches <3
> 
> (it's late for me i have regressed don't judge meeee)


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